Jaclyn the Ripper (26 page)

“Yes.” He nodded affirmatively. “From tonight. 11:57
P.M
., to be more exact. And something has happened to my eyes—probably due to the short duration of the journey, who knows—but if we don't do something the worst is going to happen!”

Amber frowned with uncertainty. “Are you fucking with me . . . ?”

“Is your language necessary?”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “Okay, well if you're not fucking with me, and you're half-blind, how did you get here?”

He explained about paying the Hispanic gardener at the Getty to bring him here because he thought he knew precisely where he would be at 12:17
P.M
. “He was terrified that I was a quote-unquote
maricón
.”

She went on staring at him.

“We saw Amy's body, 'Dusa!” He put his hands on her shoulders and said urgently, “So if we don't change today, she's going to be killed late this afternoon.”

 

______

 

After they retrieved Amber's Milan from the Getty, she took him to an ophthalmologist in Westwood who worked with the LAPD, leading him in the office so he wouldn't hurt himself. As they waited, H.G. caught himself nervously checking his pocket watch, each time the blur a little worse.
Perhaps this is Fate's way of slapping me on the wrist for trying to bring a touch of justice to her inevitability.

In the exam room, the doctor was astonished. Though H.G. had no prior indications of glaucoma, his eyes were deteriorating in the same way, only much more rapidly. The doctor diagnosed H.G. with a rare, aggressive form of the disease, recommended immediate laser surgery and wanted him admitted to the Jules Stein Eye Institute at UCLA. He told his nurse to make the arrangements.

H.G. didn't doubt the seriousness of his condition, but thought the ophthalmologist was as aggressive as the reformulation error that had affected his eyes. He began pleading with the man to give him glasses, promising that he would come back in a few days for the surgery. Reluctantly, the doctor agreed, and H.G. fled the office wearing horn-rimmed, Coke-bottle-thick glasses. Bemused, Amber told him that if he were older and uglier, he'd look like Woody Allen.

“I'll need a revolver, 'Dusa.”

“I'll call Xerox,” she said. Then a tiny smile brightened her face as an idea took shape in her mind—the smile she suppressed, the idea she did not.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice. They were together in an uncharted maze of cause and effect, playing with time and hopefully forging a new outcome to an unspeakable tragedy. He had been mulling over the conundrum since running from
The Utopia
, trying to anticipate every possibility, and the
im
possibility of doing so was driving him mad.

He gazed out the window through his new glasses. He hadn't had an opportunity to examine the various machines in the ophthalmologist's office, but did it matter? He could see again—far better than before. He frowned.
Of course it matters. The medical advances that restored my sight are astounding. Moreover, technology is indeed a wonderful gift man has given himself—if one doesn't think about wars, overpopulation, the
wholesale destruction of the planet, various forms of fundamentalism, runaway materialism for a few, poverty, man's inhumanity to man, ad nauseam—if one doesn't think about the end of the world a few centuries down the road. If one is figuratively blind.

 

Even in Venice, the day was unusually hot and humid. As soon as he got out of the car, H.G. took off his coat and draped it over his arm, but the air was dead, and he felt uncomfortable. He glanced at the smog and was reminded of global warming.

Xerox welcomed them into his bungalow with a flourish and insisted they join him for iced tea on the porch since the front room was stifling. Grateful, H.G. draped his coat over the wicker chair, and as soon as he sat down, Ernesto minced in with a tray of fresh-baked vanilla-lemon bars.

“Nice to see you again, but I'm in the middle of something,” he said apologetically, then went back in the office.

“How was San Francisco?” said Xerox. “It is
so
my favorite city.”

“Cool,” said Amber. “We had a great time.”

“Did you go to Fisherman's Wharf or the—?”

“We're here to buy a firearm,” H.G. said flatly. “Needless to say, we don't have a lot of time.”

“Ah, but one must stop to smell the roses,” Xerox said blithely.

H.G. followed him around the side of the house, but Amber lifted her lemon bar, indicating that she was going to finish it and her iced tea.

 

As soon as they were out of sight, Amber went through H.G.'s coat pockets, her hands shaking. She found the special key in the right inside pocket. Heart pounding, she held it thoughtfully and turned it reverently in her hand as if it were a sacred relic. If what H.G. had said was true—she had no reason to doubt him—then he had met her before in another time. She had no clue what had happened between them, but the possibilities were dazzling, especially after last night.
Maybe he loved me. Maybe he truly loved me. Maybe he actually chose me over
Amy, and then came back because something happened and he had second thoughts. . . .

Well, I'll never be left behind again.

She found Ernesto in the office wearing a jeweler's loupe, bent over a key machine. He glanced up and smiled inquisitively.

“Can you do this one?” She handed him the special key. “Like right now?”

“Wow,” he said appreciatively.
“Muy bonita.”

He ran his fingers over its greenish bronze surface and felt its double rows of delicate teeth, then held it up to the light and slowly turned it over and over. “What's it for . . . ? A hope chest or something?”

 

Behind the house was a small garage renovated into a dollhouse version of the bungalow. Xerox unlocked three heavy-duty combination locks on the side door, finally turned to H.G. “I don't allow guns in the house,” he said sanctimoniously. “I mean, you just never know, do you?”

H.G. wasn't sure what Xerox was talking about.

“If we lived like on the prairie,” Xerox went on, “we'd like have a basement for the tornadoes which is where I'd keep the hardware as well, but, no, we're in weird California—as if you didn't know—and weird California doesn't have basements.”

“What about earthquakes?” said H.G.

“Oh, trust me,” said Xerox, hand suddenly on his hip, “we are
totally
retrofitted. If we slid into the ocean, we'd become a cruise ship.”

They stepped inside. Xerox flipped a switch, and the room was instantly bright in soft daylight-blue. Astonished, H.G. looked from the lights back to Xerox, but Xerox spoke first.

“No, no, my man, they ain't high-output fluorescents, they're LED tubes.” He grinned and nodded. “Made right here in the U.S.A.”

H.G. had already moved farther into the room and was transfixed by the vast array of weaponry that surrounded him, some of it in display cases and on the walls, more of it in shipping crates stacked against the faux door. He couldn't help but wonder if people were instinctively stocking up for Armageddon or if this particular civilized society embraced a
subculture of killers.
I must go home and write about this, as well. I must admonish people to use their brains instead of weapons.

“Exactly what are we looking for?” Xerox lifted an AK-47 and swept it in a wide circle. “Something general . . . ?” He put it down and picked up an L96 sniper's rifle. “Or something more specific?”

“Excuse me,” said H.G., alarmed, “but don't you worry about the police?”

Xerox cackled in falsetto and touched H.G. on his arm. “Oh, you're so funny! The police are my best customers.” He opened a display case. “Now. . . . Where were we?”

Amber came inside all jittery and smiling, and they both turned to her expectantly.

“I think he's gonna want a handgun,” said Amber.

“Something with stopping power . . . ?” asked Xerox. “Or something foo-foo?”

“The guys at the station carry nine-millimeters,” she said.

“Voilà, a Beretta 92F,” Xerox said with a flourish, pulling a gun from the second shelf. “Check this out.”

Hating himself, H.G. gingerly hefted it, inspected it, actually admired its matte-silver finish and felt reassured.

“You like?”

“How does one go about using this grotesque little beauty . . . ?”

“This is home,” Amber announced for the second time.

H.G. closed the door behind him and checked his watch, pleased that they were getting to her flat only an hour later than before, thanks to the ophthalmologist and the stop at Xerox's bungalow. They would more than make up for that hour just by not having to “google” for Amy. He was convinced that the less mucking about he did with Fate's sequence of events, the better, though he wasn't sure it would make any difference.

“What do you think?” She interrupted his thoughts, spreading her arms, twirling and smiling, telling herself that if they had been here before, this is what she would have done.

“Cozy,” he replied, then glanced out the window over the breakfast nook at the alley that separated her building from the others. “Quite cozy.”

“Are you all right now?”

“ 'Dusa, I'm sorry,” he said patiently. “I've already been here. I've already heard everything you're going to say.”

She was ready for that. “Hey, I'm a woman. I'm entitled. You're probably gonna hear it all again and again—and all over again.”

“Then please don't think it rude if I'm constantly interrupting you,” he replied, his eyes twinkling.

“Whatever,” she said cheerfully.
Don't try to second-guess him. Just be cool and stumble through this, and you'll get to “whenever” you're going, and he'll never know.
She opened her laptop on the kitchen table, then blushed as her indiscretion came back to her. She turned to him and said resolutely, “You know, about what happened on the plane—”

He held up a hand, stopped her. “Please. . . . You mustn't take it personally, but like I just explained, we've already had this discussion.”

“How am I supposed to know?” she said innocently.

“You won't. You'll merely go on being redundant. . . . I'm sorry, 'Dusa, I really am.”

“Well, okay then, here's the laptop, so if you want to find your Amy, I suggest you sit down and say hi to Mr. Google.” She started out. “I'm gonna go powder my twenty-first-century nose.”

He chuckled smugly.

 

She heard him in the kitchen, then was astonished to see him heating taquitos in the microwave on a microwave-safe plate and pouring himself a Coke from the refrigerator.

“Oh, okay. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you.” He winked at her. “The pleasure is mine.” He took the taquitos from the microwave and offered them to her.

“No thanks.”

He picked one up gingerly—pinkie finger extended—bit in and tried to chew, then dropped the taquito and made a face. “Bloody awful.”

“How long did you put it in for?”

“Seven minutes.”

“You're lucky you didn't break your teeth.” She giggled. “Didn't you look at the instructions?”

“This is a simple kitchen appliance,” he said, annoyed with himself. “What does one need instructions for?”

Her giggle became a laugh. Then: “Hey, wanna do takeout?”

“Takeout is fine.”

“There's this Thai place called King of Siam.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me for being presumptuous, but is that soul food restaurant near here?”

“Whoa,” she said, surprised.
This is gonna take some getting used to.
“What did we have?”

“Something that required a sizable number of paper napkins.” He took off his new glasses, began cleaning them.

“Well, oookay.” She picked up her car keys, started for the door, then turned and smiled knowingly. “What else did we do this afternoon?”

“Not that.”

 

They ate with the laptop between them, H.G. enjoying the food as much as he had later than night at the Getty, though Amber was glancing at him strangely, knowing that he knew. She was having trouble
not
knowing what to say without making a fool of herself. Then—when he was on his fourth rib—she suddenly realized that they were no further along than they had been that morning in San Francisco's Marina.

“Bertie . . . !” She blurted out. “You haven't done anything!”

He finished his rib, wiped his hands on a paper towel, then fished the Post-it note from his shirt pocket and gave her a Cheshire cat smile. “Kevin and Elizabeth Robbins do indeed live in Beverly Hills, and this is their phone number.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“The less you know, the less chance we have of altering the chain of events.”

“Haven't we already?” she said, hurt.

“Not irrevocably.”

“How d'you know?”

He chuckled. “I'm not sure I do.”

“Y'know what?” she said, exasperated. She got up from the table and went in the living room. “You're too much of an enigma for me. I might as well go back to work, then come home and—ho-ho-hum—watch TV. Maybe you'll make the six o'clock news on SyFy.”

She flopped back on the sofa, stared at the ceiling.
What in the world
am I doing, anyway? Why do I have this stupid need to do stupid things—to go places no normal person has ever been? To, to make the headlines in Wikipedia before I turn thirty?
She wiped away tears.
What am I doing falling for some guy who steps out of a time machine? I think I should give him back the key he doesn't know about, offer to call him a cab and lock the door behind him. He doesn't care about me!